Waiting for Something
by raven22372
Summary: While watching Neil Fletcher the Drover remembers...


Another attempt of knitting a history for Neil Fletcher (and the Drover), set a short time before the events of the movie

Originally written in Perth, nearby Swan River. Unbetaed, again I hope the mistakes (which I have no doubt _do_ exist) are not too severe.

**Glossary:**

Barramundi: Bass living in the waters of the Northern Territory, often the size of a big carp but sometimes bigger and pretty tasty. "Catching a Barra" is a recreational pleasure rooted in the local tradition.

Jedda: Nullah´s dog in the movie. Oh, and an entry for the "Information the world doesn´t need" section: Actually "Jedda" is the title of an Australian movie from the Fifties; the first one that starred two Aboriginal main characters.

**Waiting for Something**

The Drover put down his glass and stretched his legs. Beneath the table Jedda, the yellow dingo mongrel, growled halfheartedly at the boot toe that dug in his fur when the boot´s owner tried to crane through the filthy window. An exciting view it was not; the midday heat had swept the streets cleaner than a monsoon cloudburst and left the square in front of the bar an incandescent frying pan (according to Ivan the barman spilling a bottle of beer made the pavement sizzle – and the only reason to doubt this was the fact that for no purpose Ivan would _ever_ sacrifice a bottle of his own beer). Reasonable people – and those who could afford it – stayed inside, having a cold ginger ale or at least a nap in the rocking chair. The only ones who had made it into none of those categories were the few station hands preparing the livestock auction. Some were occupied with the crushes, others timbered the tribunes, and all of them tried to find the balance between wasting as little energy as possible and still looking impressively busy. And there, amidst the fences, right in the center of the fiery purgatory, stood Neil Fletcher, with the only sun protection on his stage – as the platform built to supervise the cattle loading was known as among malevolent folks – being the holey tin roof. Either the heat did not bother him or the local amateur thespians around Dr. Barker had missed a great acting talent. Arms akimbo and overlooking the site with the ten yard stare of a landowner, he cut the perfect image: the future king of Darwin´s meat industry posing for his coronation.

Unfortunately for him his only spectator was the Drover and it was the onlooker´s gaze that shaped the image. The Drover had seen too many variations of the same play, all performed by the same player. It was not the double layer of dirt on Ivan´s window panes – dust from outside, an unidentifiable substance of grease from inside – that blurred the picture and revealed a different view to him. A silent figure in the glare, wearing a sweater so ridiculously warm it could only be part of a sadistic penalty, imposed by a judge with a remarkable morbid sense of humour. A man whose position close to the phone post meant so much to him he would rather constantly shade his eyes than leave it. A man on standby; for some impalpable reason he always seem to wait for a call. Not an instruction or a request, the Drover thought, but _the_ call, the one that would make the plains bloom and turn the desert into sea. He had watched him countless times, openly and in secret, yet never before it occured to him that Neil Fletcher was lonely.

He had not always been that way. That... isolated. The Drover had spent several years of his youth in Darwin and he remembered Neil´s old man, Fletcher senior. Good, hardy outback material that was, a blond man with a weathered face and a dimple, an heirloom of the Fletcher family. A dutiful station manager, according to what people said; a family man who made sure his children got a good education. A loving father, attentive, caring, quick with the belt when drunk. Not that anybody had paid any greater attention to that fact – not in a country where steering one´s car into a hapless kangaroo was considered to be a funny incident and waking up in a puddle of one´s own sick was nothing a man needed to be ashamed of.

But years may change a person and after a while the kangaroos became more and more frequent. Another surprisingly well-preserved memory displayed a teenage Neil dragging his father out of a pub, to the hooting glee of his inebriated friends. Years later, Ivan´s first action after he had taken over the business was the installation of a swinging door – to spur the fluctuation, as he said – but back then the "Territory" was merely a counter house with a common shop door, an unscalable obstacle for a boy who needed both armes to manoeuvre a drunken man. The Drover had met them on the porch, on his way into the bar and spontaneously decided to hold the door open, if not out of kindness then for the sake of logic: entering a cramped room became a lot easier when somebody else got _out_ first. All Neil was able to give his helper was a quick smile – too busy he was keeping his father´s body in an upright position – but it fulfilled its purpose. It was a seventeen year old smile, hectic and ashamed and grateful – grateful for sparing him a few more seconds under the blowtorch of scorching jeer.

But that was the time when Fletcher could still smile. It was before the man started to avoid other people´s gaze and long before he adopted the snaky attitude that had turned his face into a smooth façade – an unwholesome place for genuine expressions. Had the Drover known how rare those smiles would become, he would have expended some efforts to cause more of them, including false noses and Looney Tunes shorts, if necessary.

Perhaps he should walk over and ask him to have a beer together. Hell, why not? Talking about the bygone years of youth when riding and swimming and catching a Barramundi was all it needed to make a perfect day; there was nothing to it. No need, however, to speak about the bruises, or the book Fletcher would not show anybody else except of him. And _certainly_ there was no need to talk about that Sunday afternoon in 1918, the day before he, the Drover, went off to war, leaving behind unfinished business and an unfulfilled promise. The sun was hot that day and so was the body beneath him. No, there was definitely no need to open the mine shaft of _those_ old stories again. _He had freckles that summer._

Yet once popped up, the idea refused to be dismissed so easily. _Well, he is a bastard and so incalculable not even his own men ask him to join them when they call it a day. And speaking of unfinished business; he has so much open accounts I would run for the hills the day it will all crash upon him, if I was in his shoes. But that is not how it started, it never is. Yes, perhaps I should go ask him, most likely he will turn me down anyway. And once there were freckles._

The floor boards squeaked, then the hinges of the swinging door did. Stale heat filled the space behind the table. The flies started a combat for the sticky rim of the empty glass.

After a while Jedda rose and followed his master, tail-wagging. He padded over the porch, crossed the square and meandered his way through the maze of crushes. At the phone post he briefly stopped to sniff though today´s canine paper did not seem to offer any captivating news. So he soon left the platform, by now abandoned and trotted down the road, unimpressed by the blazing heat.


End file.
